


August 11th, 00:00

by Piekie



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: F/M, I Don't Even Know, I just love Christina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piekie/pseuds/Piekie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of the day, when the dark came and there was no place to keep his mind occupied, Peter had to give in to the longing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	August 11th, 00:00

**Author's Note:**

> I will ship Peter/Roman till the very end, but Peter/Christina is a thing that should've happened. Idk, I'm sad it didn't. So I wrote this.  
> Sorry for the grammatical/spelling errors, English isn't my first language.

The darkness was suffocating, maddening.  
Peter was tossing and turning in his sheets, a small breeze coming from the window doing nothing except bring in more humid air and blow the heat around listlessly.  
He’d been in bed for hours but couldn’t sleep. His mother’s breath had evened out the moment she’d switched off the light, not bothered at all by Arizona’s scorching hot temperature. The heat wasn’t the only thing bothering him though.  
He’d been thinking of the last couple of months. Of everything that happened, details and the big events. He thought of the people that had been in his life for a short period of time but had become engrained in his mind.  
He thought of fucking Letha, sinking himself into her wetness over and over, her mouth folded around a straw sucking on a rootbeer float.  
He thought of growing closer to Roman, of the glances they shared and his big green Godfrey eyes boring into his own.  
He thought of befriending Shelley, juggling whatever items he could find for her amusement and her stuttering laugh.  
He thought of the big white wolf that had been ready to tear his flesh off, and the soft young girl underneath that he’d spent all summer with. He longed for Christina. He _ached_ for her mere presence.  
She would sit in the rocking chair opposite his bed; her legs pulled up underneath her as she plucked on her hair in the self-conscious way only a thirteen-year-old girl could muster.  She’d listen intently to the story he would be about to tell, one about fairies (not the one he told Letha though, Christina would get her own unique story) concentrating to follow all the different names and reminding Peter to stick to the plot line whenever he followed through on an association he had with a name (“So that was Nicolai’s brother, I’m not sure what his name was, I think it was this really common name, not Roma at all. It was like Michael or something, anyway, I think he lives in California now in this big-ass fucking house with 3 kids and a wife, fucking-“ “Peter?” “Yeah?” “You’re getting off track again.” “Oh.”).  
  
Between himself and Roman there was a kind of electrical charge that seemed to buzz whenever they were in a room together. It was a kind of force that Peter would rather not think about.  
With Letha he was always trying to be good, trying to be someone he was not. He didn’t want to let her down, did not want to drive her away and be alone.  
With Christina it was different. He could let his guard down around her.  
Peter liked that Christina was a paradox; both so much older and younger than she really was. She had kind, wise eyes that told Peter her soul was much older than thirteen, but whenever he dropped the word ‘balls’ around her, she’d giggle helplessly. With Letha, even with Roman, Peter’s every move was carefully planned; calculated. Whenever Christina came to visit him at his trailer, he’d pull her inside, after several times even carefully pulling her into a hug. He could feel her bones, fragile and yet resilient through her shirt, and the press of her small, still growing breasts into his chest. He could feel her muscles clenching in surprise; and then she completely relaxed against him. It made Peter feel strange, this person that trusted him completely to keep her safe, who didn’t eye him suspiciously like the rest of the town.  
He never missed the way Christina’s eyes trailed down towards his mouth whenever he got close to her. He never told her that when she’d confessed she’d kissed him one afternoon while he was lying in the hammock, he already knew because he’d been awake.  
  
It wasn’t even the moment that Shelley killed her that he realized he’d lost her; this happened much earlier, the day after summer vacation when she refused to acknowledge his existence.  
He’d told himself the same thing he’d told Christina when she’d complained about going to high school; teenage girls were strange, like derailed freight trains, but it had still stung. He’d thought that Christina was like him, and different from others; like him she was a loner, an outcast. She was smart and curious and didn’t care for trivial things.  
He’d considered Christina a companion; and even though he was still ashamed to admit it to himself (the girl just being thirteen fucking years old and all that) he’d woken up several times with his hand stuffed down his underwear, the vowels of her name sweet on his tongue.  
  
Peter had never wished for Christina to be the vargulf, or to kill Letha.  
But to be painfully honest, his motive in screwing Letha (apart from getting laid and pissing off Roman a little bit, of course) was to bring Christina back to him, to fall back into their easy rhythm and to forget about Letha all together. It was difficult for him to think about, for him to remember his own naïveté.  
When Letha had shown an interest in Peter, he thought he’d made himself very clear. He’d told her that he wasn’t a good boyfriend. But for Christina, he might have been.   
Peter couldn’t even bring up any shame when the hot tears started leaking from his eyes, as he wept for what he’d lost.  
Letha. Shelley. Roman. Christina. Christina. _Christina_.  
The cheap alarm clock on his nightstand ticked, from 11:59 to 00:00. The 10 th of August had seamlessly slipped into the 11th. He remembered how often Christina had mentioned the 11th of August, how much she was looking forward to it every year over and over again.  
Nicolai had once told Peter, right before he died, that the things and people we love have a way of coming back to us. He’d said to Peter that perhaps we wouldn’t be able to see them (even though some very lucky people could. This had freaked Peter out at the time. Romani or not, ghosts were some seriously scary shit for a kid), but that they would be with us in our minds, and if we were lucky in our hearts as well.  
Peter pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand and blew it towards the ceiling, for the first time in his life praying to a God he did not believe in for its intended recipient to obtain it.  
  
“Happy birthday. Still not old enough for me,” Peter whispered, and the clock ticked to 00:01.


End file.
